


won't you stay here a while

by ashers_kiss



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-12
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-08-01 03:17:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16276778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashers_kiss/pseuds/ashers_kiss
Summary: “I failed.  Again,” she doesn’t have to add, but does anyway.





	won't you stay here a while

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Netgirl_y2k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Netgirl_y2k/gifts).



> Hi, Netgirl_y2k! I was your original creator, and this was your original gift; unfortunately something hinky happened where I appear to have submitted the wrong gdoc file when posting, and the mods (rightly) removed the work. They very kindly let me repost as a treat, so that you can still have your original fic, and I hope you like it (even if it's somewhat shorter than I would have preferred, due to rl commitments).
> 
> Biggest thanks to the mods for their understanding and support, and to [amine-eyes](www.amine-eyes.tumblr.com) for helping me wrestle this idea into something resembling a plot.

The ale burns her throat – partly because it is cheap, but mostly due to how quickly she throws it back. She slams her tankard on the bar and demands, “Another,” from the barkeep. He is smart enough not to argue.

A large hand clamps itself down on her shoulder, almost knocking her off her stool, and Thor’s voice thunders in her ear, across the whole tavern. “Sif! I thought I saw you sneak in – come sit with us!”

Sif turns in her seat, gives him the coldest look she can manage in her current state. It is rather impressive, she knows, but Thor has seen her worse, much worse, and the smile never leaves his face. So instead she turns back to her drink. “I failed. Again,” she doesn’t have to add, but does anyway. Now Thor’s smile falters, and he steps in closer, blocking her from the direction their friends all sit in, should any of them choose to look over, because Thor is much, much cleverer than he will ever give himself credit for.

The thought sours on her tongue, and Sif takes another drink.

“What grounds could they possibly have?” he murmurs, barely audible over the bubbles and bursts of noise, of laughter and happy voices. Sif shrugs.

“My technique was not clean enough, I believe.”

“I’ll speak to my father,” Thor says, righteous and insistent, as he always is. “This cannot stand, they are _fools_ – ”

“With all due respect, _Your Highness_ ,” Sif cuts, “I would rather you didn’t.” She has got this far without trading on their friendship, on her father’s name, her brother’s – she will continue, if it takes her another ten years. She drains her tankard; this time, it is refilled without hesitation, before she has even opened her mouth, and somewhere, she thinks she might feel a smile twitch. There may be some things she is willing to use Thor for. “Should you not be getting back to your brother?” she says, pointed as she raises her ale again, and Thor’s mouth twists, but because he is good (he is so _very_ good, Sif doesn’t think he understands quite how good), he only squeezes her shoulder again – she does not flinch, because she is used to it, but it is a near thing – before leaving her without another word.

Which is probably a good thing, given the sounds coming from the direction of his table. It is never wise to leave Loki unsupervised for too long, Sif has found.

With her friend, her prince gone and the bar filling around her, Sif allows her shoulders to slump only slightly, swallowing the last mouthful. Tonight, she will continue to drink herself into oblivion, and tomorrow, she will go to her brother, beg his drinking cure and spend her day in his kitchen, bemoaning the standards that allowed _Volstagg_ to pass but deem her imprecise, inefficient, unworthy of defending her realm. And then the next day, she will get back to work.

She _will_ join the Warriors. She will, if she has to wait for every single examiner to die of old age first.

But before that – more ale.

*

Thor and their friends are long gone by the time the two brutes at the other end of the bar have drank enough to take it into their head to harass the barkeep’s daughter. She does not need Sif’s help, deals them both swift blows to somewhere tender, but Sif needs no invitation to the brawl that follows, takes only the time to finish her drink before sending her own fist into a nose or three.

She is only vaguely aware of the armour wading its way into the fray, the yelping of big men who are suddenly faced with much fiercer wills and better skills. She only pays attention when another hand catches hers, stills her aim with a callused hand on her wrist. “You’re done here, little warrior,” its owner says, almost amused, and Sif will admit the colours swim slightly when she lifts her head, before the matching face comes into (somewhat blurry, admittedly) view. Her gaze catches on a curved mouth, and even if she wasn’t laughing at Sif she feels as though there would be a perpetual amusement to this smile, before being drawn to bright eyes that seem to reflect every spot of light, even in this dark little place.

Hogun would say she has drunk too much. Thor would say she is in love; Loki would then have to call it lust. All Sif knows is the feel of her stomach swooping, her mouth going dry as her blood pounds in her ears.

Then again, that may be the ale.

“Easy,” the soldier says – for she is a soldier, a shining beacon of the elite, though Sif cannot place her rank – her grip sliding to Sif’s elbow, her other hand coming to rest over Sif’s neck under her hair, blessed cool as Sif bows, feel her insides quake in rebellion at so much movement so soon after so much drink. “I’ve heard of firing the blood, but maybe a bit too much, hmm?”

“’M not a Warrior,” Sif mutters, closing her eyes as her knees sway in front of her face. “Not _yet_.”

There is a pause, and then a laugh, something lower than the voice would suggest. “Is that so?” she says, just as low as her laugh, but then the colours stop swimming and darkness slides across Sif’s vision instead.

*

She wakes in her own bed, alone, with hammers pounding in her temples which only has _something_ to do with the banging on her chamber door, she realises. She burrows further beneath her blankets, and then, when whoever it is does not _go away_ , shouts out, _“What.”_ Which was not one of her better ideas, she can admit, as fresh pain lances through her head the volume.

“You are required,” the incredibly annoying person on the other side of her door yells back, and she knows that voice, one of the heralds, she is sure, but now her memory fades and swirls around her, and she gives up with a groan. “For the commencement of Warrior training.”

It takes a moment, and yet another, while Sif blinks at the darkness of her cocoon. Then, “Shit,” she says, and throws her covers back.

When she arrives at the training grounds, stumbling and heavy-limbed, those who passed the exams stare at her, while the teachers, the _Warrior knights_ , look unimpressed. All but one, who even with the natural curl of her mouth looks as _pleased_ , and Sif feels that flush again.


End file.
